


Faith and Fury

by Lewdsmokesoldier



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: (only slightly), Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/F, Fantastic Racism, Futanari, Other, Rimming, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Sweat, musk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29922390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lewdsmokesoldier/pseuds/Lewdsmokesoldier
Summary: The Vestal's long life of deprivation has become more than she can resist, and her compulsions drive her to the Hellion for relief from the distractions that plague her mind. Can she withstand the allure of this warrior-woman, or will her faith fail her, and leave her fallen?
Relationships: Hellion/Vestal (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. First Foray

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually commission to make an expanded version of a short that appeared in my Buttstuff Blitz Bash Bonanza Batch: The Buttfuckening. You can read that entry [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26517760/chapters/64632148).. Some of the content is reused from that, but is reframed or given some other context. Everything beyond this first chapter is entirely new.

_ I put quill to parchment here, to attempt to recount the events that led me to my current predicament, and my intended path forward. None but myself shall witness these words...none but myself, at least, and that Grace which I know guides my actions and knows my thoughts. _

_ Blessed are the humble, who know their place in the Light’s plan, and neither exceed their station nor shrink from it. _

_ The shame of my expulsion, mercifully, did extend to excommunication or worse. Errant thoughts and misplaced distractions led to a dereliction of my duty, and that sacred Fire, earthly symbol of our Light, was dulled and ashen embers for the first time in decades. I was fortunate to not be put to death for my failure, cast into an underground gaol to await a slow death by starvation and thirst. Perhaps the Light interceded on my behalf, and tempered the justice of the church council with leniency: In any event, exile was a better fate than I deserved. _

_ Since the fateful day that I left my convent, I have lingered on that which prompted the miscarriage of my creed, hoping to understand how I could have failed so completely. Whatever I was before the convent, in my years as a younger girl, was recast afterwards. Into a life of purity, empowered by a sisterhood of shared purpose, enforced by a mother superior, and shadowed by the influence of the Abbot and the monks….all it took was an errant thought, or series of thoughts, and it was gone. Not in its entirety, for I still have my virginity, and my faith, and my holy books and consecrated armaments. A hedge Vestal still carries religious authority in environs where the ecclesiastical structure is less enforced, less organized, even if she is exiled. I was not cast from the love of the Light, merely the structure of the church. _

_ Still, I spent many an hour perusing the means by which I lost my way, however briefly, and therein lay the trap of infernal design. To reflect on sin, to confess and comfort the repentant sinner and castigate the unapologetic one, is inherent in the practice of our faith. It is only by acknowledgement and understanding that we can live holy, righteous, moral lives. I thought it merely an execution of that philosophy to reflect on the exact thoughts that misguided me, until I let the fire run near-cold. _

_ I was wrong. Now I am haunted by phantom images, sensations I have never experienced, twinges and odors and sounds that linger in my dreams without impetus. I fear the whispers of my mind, and the shadows that reach for me when I close my eyes. Bodies, of men, of women, of more, dancing and flowing, then coming together until… _

_...I cannot bear to write it. Suffice to say that when they first crept up onto me, I prayed with particular fervor. But they did not retreat for long, these glimpses of lurid, lewd, lustful images, wanting whispers and salacious scents, lingering faintly even when they did not coalesce into more material representations of carnal acts.  _

_ What was worse was that at some point, and I cannot say when, they ceased to horrify me. They were no longer repulsive, and fascinating in a putrid way, but banal, and unworthy of shock. And then, they became more. They became appealing. _

_ I know my path is still guided by the Light. To walk where the shadows hold no power, where the Flame protects and the Verses are known to be true. What can this be but a trial of my faith? And such a trial must be met, and never evaded, for avoiding the testing of the Word is worse than conceding oneself as incompletely devoted in Its eyes.  _

_ Which is what brings me to my present circumstances. I know what I must do. I must directly contact such impulses, and by the horror of their being, be reminded that they are beyond the realm of acceptability, of banality, and must reside in that sphere of things that lead to death and damnation. Fortunately, the Light has presented for me an ample opportunity for such an ordeal. _

_ My travels have taken me to a particular estate, and into the employ of its heir. I heal and pray and draw on the Light to drive back the darkness that encroaches on this Hamlet. I am but one of a group that might be better called a garrison. Among them are numbered true paragons of the faith, of the type I am familiar with, who have traveled elsewhere on righteous crusade against the heathen, or who hold to the teachings of the Light in their hearts and words. Others with whom I am less acquainted with, but that still could be heard of at the convent. And still others of whom I had no understanding existed at all in the worst, bizarre and foreign. _

_ The one of whom I speak is of the second group. The ferocity of the mountain and forest tribespeople led to many an army man being brought to my convent for healing or hospice, and the tales of their resistance to the kingdoms of civilized men is well-known. For godless heathens, they are strong, and that is all I shall concede them. They know hell in their hearts, and fire shall be their resting place, both in the pyres they char their dead in and the afterlife that awaits them if they do not accept the Light into their souls and lives. _

_ She is one such savage. I do not know what her barbarous tongue’s name for her practice is, but I am told that the viciousness and brutality of their shrieks and blows has led to warriors of her ilk to be termed Hellions. I know not what brought her to this Hamlet, nor do I particularly care to know. She is a filthy, irreverent, rude and uncouth woman, boisterous and crass, though like before I will concede that she knows how to use her glaive with bloody effectiveness. _

_ Her combat talents do not interest me. I see the way she luridly gawks at the others, and how she stares at me. She is not the only one, but none of the others ogle with such shameless openness. She will serve my purpose. _

_ I must cast aside my worldly shame, for the sake of my soul and to understand the path the Light has put before me. Today, when we are on our expedition with two others, I will go to her. I will perform the most disgusting, degrading, demeaning sexual act with her that I can conceive of, and when the horror and revulsion of such an action is made apparent to me, my errant, lustful thoughts will be banished forever. I will know the misery of the pursuits of the flesh, in such a fashion that I shall keep my purity, while still being dissuaded from all such musings for the future. I cannot yet re-enter the convent, and perhaps never will, but this will give me the peace I need to serve my faith. _

_ This is my purpose, in the Light’s plan. _

* * *

The night is dark and full of terrors. They dart out of sight, but never out of mind, whispering just enough to set you anxious and taut, but just far enough away that you are trapped between a purgatory of alertness and exhaustion. 

The Hamlet’s adventuring parties of heroes are no strangers to this. Whether they are trekking through gutted castle corridors, salt-stricken pools, meandering thickets, or collapsing caverns, the Hamlet’s heroes know that the dark is generous, and it is patient.

So it is that one long tormented by her own failures, by the murmurs of her soul and the inclinations of her dreams, turns to another, also sitting restlessly by the flickering fire.

They are not ken. The shackled one has placed her bonds upon herself, forswearing body for faith, a vow of purity, while the other has forsaken all limitations and lives by abandon. It is with no small sneering, and no subtle condescension, that the Hellion assents to the Vestal’s urgent, desperate desire...but she will not let the holy sister go about her business un-taunted.

“So, it was all a front, is that it?” The warrior turns her nose up, guffawing, but does not move. She is seated on the log by the blazing fire, legs spread and hide loincloth pulled aside to allow the object of the priestess’s affection to be accessed. “So pure and holy, but in the end, you’re like all of them, aren’t you? Nothing but a hopeless whore.”

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” The Vestal mumbles. She will not be distracted from her purpose. The service she is to perform is for no material gain, no worldly pleasure. The opposite, in fact. By this act, she shall confirm her faith, and know to resist the whispers of her errant mind.

Her eyes fixed pointedly on something, but it is not the massive, dark, girthy pillar sprouting up from the Hellion’s crotch. Nor is her gaze directed towards the twin, titanic nuts that swing beneath, pulsing with heat and pent-up seed. Her vision is aimed even further beyond, as she stares at the sweaty, glistening, puckered hole of the berserker’s rear, the warrior’s muscular ass lifted to allow the priestess a better view. 

The priestess does not hesitate. She has endured worse in the name of the Light before. She leans forward stiffly, unwavering.

The Hellion chuckles. “Whatever you say. Now hurry up and eat my ass, like you so  _ desperately  _ told me you want to.” 

The Vestal cannot retort, for her nose is already buried in the warrior’s balls, her lips pressing further in to plant a dainty kiss on the Hellion’s taint. Immediately, the priestess scrunches her nose up and makes a sour face, but the warrior lays a firm hand on the holy woman’s head.

“I could have warned you that I don’t wash...except I never get tired of seeing pretty ladies like yourself realize just what they got themselves into, once it’s too late for them to leave.” The Hellion hawks a glob of saliva up from the bottom of her throat and spits it directly on the Vestal’s forehead, a precise shot onto that pale face between the amazon’s muscular thigh and throbbing fuckstick. “They can never resist me when I smell like this, anyway. Whether they’re highborne nobles or self-righteous nuns, it’s only a matter of time before they’re mine.”

The Vestal cannot hesitate now. It is sour, and sweaty, and salty and raw...but that very same pungency is why she is doing this. The degradation and disgust are supposed to be necessary to ward off the suggestion that this act should be appealing. 

So she ignores the jeering, and the spitting, and licks and slurps and smooches the Hellion’s asshole. She shoves her tongue inside that rear entrance, swirls it, then withdraws it to taste. The Vestal’s eyes are watering from the bitterness on her lips, and her head is fuzzy from her nostrils being stuffed in the warrior’s nutstack, but she does not stop worshiping this raw, unashamedly debased idol. 

There is a glimmer of uncertainty. The actions have...yet to repulse her. Not beyond the material, anyway. The Vestal is discomforted, overwhelmed, but it is only for the physical sensations of the Hellion’s asshole and balls upon her tongue and lips and nose. Her mind has yet to connect the filthiness of this action, in all its facets, with the certainty that she had told herself she was doing this for. The gap between the enthrallment of her private thoughts, and the reality of this miserable act, are not bridging. Or, rather, they are not bridging the way she anticipated.

Because the Vestal is  _ not _ repulsed in her soul by the act of slurping on the Hellion’s sweaty, unwashed taint, licking and lapping. Her spirit is  _ not _ driven away from her private dreams of carnal love by the cloying, suffocating smell of the Hellion’s nutsack on her nostrils. Instead, she is...warming, loosening, and anticipating. 

The Vestal is more terrified than she has ever been, and that excites her. 

The Hellion clenches her thighs around the Vestal’s head and grinds her asshole against the priestess’s mouth. Her shaft is bobbing with promise, and her balls are twitching and tensing against the nose of the slimmer woman beneath her.

“Feel how fat they are, little Vestal? I’ve been saving my cum for a  _ very _ special occasion. I knew you would want this, and I’ve been waiting for the moment when I could spew all over you. A whole week!” The Hellion grunts and grinds her teeth together, clearly strained. “Do you have  _ any _ idea how long that is for me? My balls are backed up, little Vestal, and about to burst. And now you get all of it, free of charge! Eat up, slut!  _ Raaaaaaaaaaaaargh! _ ” 

She roars, and traps the holy woman in a box of thighs, balls, asscheeks, and cock, until the Vestal is drowning in dark meat. The Hellion’s dick erupts, spewing great, thick, heavy gobs of cream across the Vestal’s hooded face, all over her clothed back, that sensitive asshole shuddering around the holy woman’s protruding, probing, prodding tongue. She tastes all the sweat, and smells all the musk, and her vows seem a distant, forgotten promise. The entire purpose of her choice vanishes for a moment of pure, unadulterated need.  _ This _ is what she’s been looking for, what she has been missing all her life. 

And then it is done, and the Vestal is left with shame. And with consequence.

The Hellion laughs as she slaps and drums her dick across the priestess's face when she tries to wipe some cum away. “Keep it on. Until we go back to the Hamlet, I’m going to look back at your seed-drenched face and use  _ that _ to get me through this trek once the scouting duo comes back. I don’t care what they think.”

The Vestal burns with embarrassment, and self-pity, and self-hatred, but she cannot muster anything but a feeble “I thank you, in the Light’s name.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” The Hellion retorts, then wiggles her eyebrow as she tucks her cock and balls away, still sticky and sloppy. “I haven’t even shown you the best part yet. Once I plow open your ass and leave you gaping and stuffed full of cum,  _ then _ you can thank me. If you aren’t banged and broken by my bitchbreaker into a brain-blasted bimbo, at least.”

The Vestal’s only response is to pray, privately, that she has not erred. That she has not worsened the temptations, and redoubled her desirous dreams. But it is so fleeting a plea that, perhaps, it is not even truly in earnest. Only the Light knows.


	2. Salvation and Submission

_The rest of the expedition wherein I stepped forward and accepted this trial passed without incident, though the other two that accompanied us were suspicious of my stained face. If they suspected the cause, they did not speak up. Out of respect for my station, perhaps, but the wild woman did not make it easy to mistake the source of my strewn features, what with her gallivanting about smugly, shooting me knowing looks and grinning whenever she could. I endured the prodding, keeping in my conscience the understanding that worldly shame is nothing in light of eternity. I remained confident that on my return to the Hamlet, I would have my faith renewed in the light of my sufferings, and emerge with a better understanding of why the temptations of carnal thoughts are to be rejected and cast aside._

_I must mournfully concede that events have not gone according to my design._

_A week has passed, and still my dreams are haunted by ghostly images of congress and copulation. My waking mind is assailed by lewd cavortions, salacious mutterings, and suggestive utterances. When I walk, the lampposts seem to be as phalluses, and the doorways as...something else. When I pray, my hands waver and my focus wanders, and I cannot keep still. And I am not repulsed. I am enticed. It has gotten worse._

_How could I have misjudged so badly? Indulgence_ never _satiates a craving, only intensifies it for the next feeding. Only by withdrawing into my faith could I have avoided dwelling on these loathsome thoughts, but I chose the path of worldly testing, and in my conceit, imagined that the Light had laid it out for me. Foolish! It is not my place to imagine I can picture its design, and now a distraction has become an obsession._

_My sisters were right. The mother superior was right. The abbot and monks were right. Rather than learning from my sins, I have repeated them. My repentance must not have been sincere enough, for my soul to have fallen so deeply into woe from the same source._

_...No. No, I shall not accept that. I have erred, and I have sinned, and I have failed in my duties more than once. But I am still a Vestal. I am still a virgin, pure and unsullied, one of the Light’s agents upon our mortal plane. I am more flawed than I should be, but I must remember my words. I was cast from the worldly church, not from the arms of the faith, not from the love of the Light. I still hold its power, and it has not abandoned me._

_Nor is it conceit to imagine I can interpret the opportunities it presents for me. I am no false prophet: My observations are my own, and no one else’s. Is it heresy to hold private dialogue with the thoughts that our faith imparts to us? I cannot believe so._

_I shall not deny my mistakes. My expulsion was warranted, and my exile a leniency. Nor do I pretend that there was no error in pursuing a faulty remedy for my condition. But I will not lose hope in the designs of my faith. I simply do not yet comprehend its message. Perhaps these new travails are but further tests in its plan for me._

_Or perhaps I am a delusional heretic. But I cannot be certain, one way or another, and it is not my place to know before my time._

_Blessed are the humble, who know their place in the Light’s plan, and neither exceed their station nor shrink from it._

_I will return to her, to that heathen Hellion, and commit myself to further indignities. My faith will be reified, one way or another. Either I will be confirmed as walking on the unblemished path of purity, or I must accept that the designs of the Light for me are of a different sort._

_But I must trust, and I must have faith, that whatever the outcome, it is as it should be, as it has been intended and directed. That this is my place._

**_Explicit Epistolae Junia Vestalis_ **

* * *

Again, she is laying by the flames, but the scene is not the same. For one, she is approached, rather than already alongside another, and she is alone. More than alone: Isolated, for her fire is apart from the rest, even in the community of the Hamlet. She is not even with her usual companions, two twisted men, one by dark magic, the other by disease. She is completely by herself.

That is exactly why the Vestal is walking up to her. And that is precisely what the Hellion has been waiting for.

“I knew you would come.” The warrior chuckles with satisfaction, blue face tattoos seeming to shrink by the firelight. “Never takes long.”

The Vestal does not respond. She has come with fewer accoutrements, shedding her plate mail for simpler vestments, in the form of a robed habit and a hood. The Hellion notices the change in attire, and scoffs. 

“Hm. Came prepared, I see. Good. I hate ruining good steel by ripping it off, but that wouldn’t have stopped me.” It does not seem to occur to the Hellion that the Vestal’s change of clothes might have less to do with anticipation, and more to do with the fact that it is simply impractical to walk around wearing heavy armor at all times. Her crusading associate manages it, somehow, but she is less able in that regard.

She is less able in many, it would seem, because the Hellion’s assumption is correct. The holy woman’s underdressing does, indeed, have more to do with expecting particular activities, and little to do with practicality. The Vestal resists the urge to blush at how openly the barbarian is reading her.

“Get it off.” The Hellion tilts her head, expectantly. The virgin hesitates, but only for a moment. She has come here to put herself at the mercy of a merciless woman. Why would she be surprised that such a person would do so petty as ‘make the priestess strip herself?’

It is not a very titillating process, or so the Vestal believes. Granted, she has no such experience, and the Hellion seems to disagree at the banality of it. For she is eagerly leering as the priestess folds her hood back, revealing her golden blonde hair, and begins to lift her robe by the waist. Perhaps it is the simple thrill of seeing a holy virgin strip, but the berserker’s gaze is ripe with anticipation. A trickle of drool oozes from the corner of her mouth as the Vestal lifts and pulls, and drags her habit off of her.

The habit, by design, obstructs the form of the wearer, and the curves of the woman beneath. Nevertheless, the Vestal does not register surprise in the Hellion’s visage when her body is laid bare, the plain fabric cast to the ground as the virginal priestess stands naked, fully revealed in the firelight.

The Vestal has some tone, to bear her armor and mace and holy book, but more than anything she is voluptuous, curvaceous, scandalously well-endowed in all feminine respects. Her breasts are soft and heavy, small nipples stiffening in the breeze even with the heat of the flickering fire near her. Her hips are wide, flaring outward with particular promise that the Hellion seems to linger on. Her rear has give and some heft, jiggling slightly when she shuffles her feet, but does not jut out either behind or to either side with any exaggeration. Between her milky thighs, a tuft of bushy blonde hair rests, only barely tamed, just above a smooth, tense slit, and it is this last fact that leaves the Hellion cackling.

“Hah! So, you don’t actually have a locked belt down there, is that it? That another church lie?” She waits, and the Vestal feels there is space to respond.

“Common nuns are not expected to bear such protections, no. But Vestal virgin priestesses are. I have simply made without it for this occasion.” She tries to speak in an even, careful, controlled tone, but it is more difficult than she expected.

The barbarian guffaws. “Heh! You don’t understand what’s happening here, do you? You’re not here for whatever reason you _think_ you are.”

She licks her lips, then bares her teeth, which glint in the firelight. “But I won’t spoil your lie just yet, if that keeps you from running.”

Leaning back, she nods with smug satisfaction. “Good tits, nice fat ass, pretty face, hips for birthing...yes, you’ll do nicely. Though it wouldn’t have mattered if you didn’t. Every bitch who comes gets the same from me.”

The Hellion grins wolfishly. “But I think you’ll be something special. Now, c’mere. Get these furs off of me. I’m not doing it myself.” 

So saying, she leans back against the log that has served as her seat, sliding down so that her upper back and shoulders are resting on the side of the wood now. As she moves, she spreads her legs and lifts her arms to lay them out on the bark, lounging like a cat or a dog at rest. With a small bow, the Vestal steps forward, and whispers a final prayer for guidance, for reassurance that she is doing the right thing for her faith, for the Light. She knows that she will not get another opportunity until this is over.

The Hellion does not normally wear much, but she is clad in even less than usual. Her feet are bare, and her arms are free of their wraps. The tunic that hangs down below her knees has been replaced with a simpler hide loincloth that covers only her pelvis, albeit one that clings tightly enough that the Vestal can sense something stirring beneath. Gone too is her full frilled collar on her neck and shoulders, replaced instead by a simpler, heavier fur coat that covers her whole upper body and her biceps.

To wear such thick layering seems odd, to the priestess. It is not a cold night, and even if it was, why leave her feet, legs, hands and forearms completely exposed? She cannot understand this wild woman, however much the Vestal expects to use her to determine the path forward of her faith. 

“Hah! Good. You’re learning already. And start with the top. You’ll see why soon enough.” The berserker laughs hawkishly as the priestess lowers herself to her hands and knees and crawls the last few steps closer. There is no clasp or latch, for one half is merely folded over the other. She is no hunter, but as she touches it, she can recognize the texture of bear fur, from the rug in the nunnery’s chancel. That means that this coat is even heavier and even better at retaining heat and warding away cold, than wool, or wolf hide, or most other animal skins she knows of. 

The Hellion grins. “I’ve been sitting _extra_ close to the fire.”

She is telling the truth. The fur is uncomfortably warm on the outside and the Vestal cannot imagine how overheated the Hellion is, but somehow she is not passing out from heatstroke. The virgin slips her fingers gingerly beneath the overlapping fold of the coat, and begins to pull back until she can see the second. She tugs both aside slowly, carefully, as if she is opening a trapped chest. 

As soon as the first hint of dark skin is visible, three things strike the Vestal.

The first is the sight of the Hellion’s stomach, hard and strong, with rows of abdominal muscles resting atop each other. She has never seen such physical power displayed on a body before, not to this degree.

The second is the view of the shimmering, shining layer of sweat covering the warrior-woman’s stomach. There are no solitary drops of perspiration there, only a suffuse coat of dampness, blanketing her like she’d been swimming in deep water or drenched in oil.

The third is the smell, and it overpowers the other two. The initial peek of the Hellion’s abs brings forth a tremendous odor of ripeness, bitter and sharp and salty. It careens into the Vestal’s nostrils, cloying her sense of smell and forcing tears from her eyes as her lips scrunch in some combination of fascination and disgust. It is the most concentrated, targeted cocktail of sweat and musk that she has ever felt, and it makes the scent of last week’s indulgence seem like perfume by comparison. She almost gags. Almost.

The Vestal’s fingers tremble, but she manages, barely, to pull more of the Hellion’s coat to the side. When she lets go, the weight of it flops flatly outward, pushing the other woman’s forearms between it and the log so the virgin can look upon the warrior-woman’s upper body without obstruction. As she stares, the berserker slips her arms free from the arm-holes in the coat and sits with her top half free, lounging and waiting, stretched out idly.

Just as the glimpse suggested, the Hellion’s body is entirely coated in sticky sweat, glistening and wet, slippery and dripping. She is muscular all over, from her clavicle to her core, her sides to her shoulders, taut and stiff with raw physical strength. A line of ugly, jagged scar tissue is cut across her right side, extending from the edge of her abdomen and disappearing towards her back, but it is merely the largest of a myriad of smaller nicks, slashes, and scrunched puncture marks scattered along her belly, shoulders, and even pockmarked over her breasts. 

The priestess would have expected such a well-formed woman to have breasts with less sway, and more muscular tissue instead. She would be incorrect in that regard, for the Hellion’s tits are huge and hefty, bobbing slightly as the warrior breathes. They are even bigger than the Vestal’s, if only due to the other woman’s larger size in all respects, and briefly, the priestess feels self-conscious, uncertain at her diminutiveness by comparison. The difference in dimension extends even to the barbarian’s nipples, dark brown, wide and circular with an outer ring of lighter areolae, dripping perspiration as her chest heaves with her rough, barking laugh.

“Quite a sight, aren’t I?” For a moment, the Hellion sounds wistful, looking askance and chuckling to herself, perhaps reflecting on her life before the Hamlet. Then she blinks, and is back to her smug, confident smirk. “Feel free to drink it all in. You’ll be doing a _lot_ more soon enough. But best get me all the way out, yes?”

She jabs her fingers towards her loincloth, which is the only clothing she has left on her body. It is an unsubstantial thing, at best: The Vestal can see the upper part of the Hellion’s tangled pubic hair jutting out past the top of the fur covering her crotch, and the very tightness with which it is sewn together means that it does not do much to disguise what is beneath. Even though the grain of the fur obscures any outline of the shape it rests atop of, the bulge is unmistakable, and seems to twitch as the virgin’s eyes wander over it.

It should not bother the priestess to be so close to something that she has already borne witness to, especially when it is _more_ covered that it was the last time she saw the other woman, but it disquiets her nonetheless. Perhaps because this time, she is stripping the other woman consciously, rather than simply waiting for the Hellion to pull herself free. It is an even greater gap to bridge than that which she attempted before, and that requires some pause, if only a brief one.

The Vestal inhales, to prepare herself, and shudders. She has been holding her breath ever since she’d stripped the Hellion’s upper half, and now that she has breathed in for a second time, the stench that coats the berserker is assailing her once again. It is suffocating, filling her sinuses with salt and bitter ripeness, forcing her eyes to water as she holds back a hacking cough. It is difficult to focus, difficult to think, with that smell wafting into her senses, and every withheld gag just forces her to breath and smell and taste _more_ of it. In trying to ready herself, she’s already become unbalanced, and it’s difficult to keep steady and advance to the next step as she intends to. 

She manages to reach forward and rest her hands against the Hellion’s crotch-covering, albeit with her eyes blinking away tears and her fingers trembling. Like the warrior’s coat, it is bear fur, thick and warm, wrapping around her waist to cover her backside, and as befitting a loincloth, it is free of clasps and straps, merely pulled up and kept in place by being small enough to rest on her hips. The vestal’s hands are not the soft, delicate ones of sheltered nobility, but even with her callouses she feels vulnerable and smaller merely by the sight of her fingers touching such a symbol of primal strength: A segment of hide from one of the mightiest creatures in all the woodlands, reappropriated as clothing for the most intimate of places on the human body. It is humbling, and intimidating, and she can do nothing but grab gingerly at the waistline of the loincloth and begin to pull down.

The Hellion raises her hips slightly as the virgin pulls, so the back half can slip free more easily. As the Vestal tugs, she sees the rest of the warrior’s messy, untamed pubic hair come into view, and then the base of her cock as more and more of that dark girth is revealed with every passing second. It is hypnotic to watch the seemingly endless procession of the Hellion’s shaft being exposed little by little, sticky with sweat and ridged with folds of overlapping, loose skin, the fatter, heavy orbs beneath providing a double accompaniment to the uncovering of that massive rod. When the Vestal drags the bear-fur loincloth free at last, enough for the Hellion’s dickhead to be released from its straining confines, it flops out into view, springing slightly upward in the beginnings of an erection.

It is terrifying to look upon, a meaty, umber-brown rod that might seem better equipped to serve as a portion of a spear haft than a body part, but it is real, and it is not even fully primed. The Vestal keeps her eyes locked on it as she keeps tugging on the Hellion, watching the scrunched foreskin at the tip slowly recede, peeling and rolling back as the berserker’s excitement builds. The priestess tries to hold her breath as she strips the warrior-woman’s lower half, but she cannot restrain the urge to inhale, and when she does, her head swims once again with the chemical compound of richly heady sweat, a scent that is starting to numb her sense of smell and the integrity of her focus. Her divided attention means that she does not even realize that she has finished pulling down the other woman’s loincloth until the barbarian grunts and pulls her feet closer to herself, slipping free from the waistline of the fur covering.

Now the Hellion is truly, utterly naked, and she seems to revel in it, stretching out her arms and legs, wiggling her toes to free herself of the last vestiges of clothing-induced stress. She yawns, then smacks her lips loudly, looking drowsy and lazy and totally content. The Vestal worries, briefly, if the warrior is going to nod off on her, to sleep and force the holy woman to return at a later date, or take advantage of a snoozing companion.

Mercifully, she does not appear to be falling into slumber, not neither does she say anything, not yet. Instead, the Hellion is lounging, limbs loose and sprawled, legs spread and back resting against the log as she sits in the dirt. Her balls are terribly weighty, and their size makes them hang down, low enough to rest atop the soil and drag against the dirt, the skin of her scrotum stretching down to accommodate their lowered state. The thick, overlapping folds of her foreskin are still rolling down, slowly revealing more and more of the Hellion’s cockhead, slightly lighter than the rest of her deeply teakwood-colored dick...but it has not peeled back all the way, not yet, and her shaft has yet to approach full stiffness.

The Hellion wiggles her eyebrows and speaks, finally, with smug self-certainty.

“I don’t need to tell you what to do, do I?” She grins knowingly, then lifts her arms to drape them across the log. The movement brings the skin at the crux of her forearms and shoulders into view, for just a moment, and the Vestal glimpses the glimmer of sweaty, bushy hair in the folds there.

The warrior is correct. The virgin priestess knows what to do. With a final pause for breath—and another reeling, confounding assault upon her senses with a blasting intake of the Hellion’s smell—the Vestal crawls towards to the Hellion. She is not certain where to start, so she tries to let her instincts and intuition guide her, two aspects of her mind that have gone un-practiced in the interest of her faith. Her direction wavers, and then finds purchase, as her lips alight on the Hellion’s bellybutton, kissing the skin gently.

Immediately, her nostrils tense and her lips quaver, but the Vestal resists the urge to pull back and away. As she expected, the sheen of sweat coating the Hellion like a second skin is making her _actual_ skin taste strongly of bitter, salty fluid, stinging her lips with the unfamiliar sharpness. Her head dips further forward still, and her nose nudges the line running up the center of the berserker-woman’s coiled, hard abs. She has had her face stuffed in the Hellion’s sweaty skin before, further below, but as her nostrils press into the overlapping ridges of muscle, the Vestal’s eyelids quiver and she can _feel_ a burning in the bridge of her nose. The warrior’s so close presence by the fire, so heavily attired in overwarm furs...it has made the stench of her sweat so much fuller, richer, and all-overpowering, delivered by the drenched perspiration slicking her dark skin. The Vestal tries to plant another peck onto the Hellion’s quivering bellybutton, a delicate kiss, and it instead comes out as a less controlled smooch, her lips a bit more open, her tongue grazing the skin, her teeth bumping the scarred skin around the opening. The clumsiness of it surprises the Vestal herself, but she keeps at it, even dipping her tongue into the the other woman’s navel, to tease out the pooled, trapped salinity, until she has kissed and licked the Hellion’s bellybutton clean of sweat, gulping down the salt into the sanctuary of her stomach. It is difficult to keep the movements controlled, assaulted as she is by the barbarian’s scent, but she keeps her discipline, little slips aside, and completes her task, tickling her partner all the while.

The berserker laughs crudely as the Vestal slowly makes her way upwards, dragging her nose above the warrior’s stomach to alight below the larger woman’s breasts. “I waited by that fire for _hours_ , little Vestal, sweltering in that bearskin, knowing it would only be a matter of time before you returned. I made sure to snuggle as close to the flames as I could, to get even sweatier than I normally would. You can tell, can’t you?” 

The Vestal cannot respond, too busy peppering kisses and licks along each ridge and fold of the Hellion’s perfect abs. The movements are becoming increasingly sloppy, the kisses going from smaller, if less graceful smooches to slobbering crashes of her lips against the warrior’s dark skin, her tongue dragging lazily to lap up the layer of perspiration covering the other woman’s abs, then returning to catch the stray fluid as it begins to trickle down from the disturbance. The force of the Hellion’s stench is growing stronger, harder and harder to keep at a distance from the recesses of her mind, if she ever really has. The concern is barely noted, as she nibbles on the unyielding muscles, satisfied that the sheen that coats the barbarian’s belly is her own saliva, and not perspiration, and then moves further upwards.

“Can you also tell that I have not washed since our expedition, little Vestal? I knew you’d come for me, and I figured that it was only fair that I give you more of what you wanted...and to a degree that you did not expect.” The Hellion sighs contentedly, leaning her head back, lounging lazily as the Vestal advances towards the berserker’s chest. “A week’s worth of built-up sweat and musk, all for you, all to draw you to me...and a week’s worth of something else, too.”

The Hellion chuckles at her tease. She is not specific, but the Vestal knows that she is speaking of her nuts, full of cum and yearning to be unleashed, just like last time. Only now, the warrior’s big, beefy balls seem even fatter, even heavier and thicker, than when the Vestal had stuffed her face into them a week ago to slurp the Hellion’s asshole. As she brings her face between the berserker’s massive, umber-brown tits, the other woman guffaws knowingly and without clarification, lounging and still not lifting a finger, letting the Vestal do everything of her own accord.

The poor priestesses’s eyes are occluded by dark flesh, her cheeks are pressed on both sides by two big breasts, her nose completely surrounded by sweaty, slippery skin. Her mouth tries to find purchase, and she settles for sliding her lips along the space betwixt the Hellion’s tits, nibbling at the dripping perspiration until she can only taste her own spit and drool. It takes all of the Vestal’s willpower to lean back, prying her face from between her partner’s huge breasts, and take a moment. 

Every gasp of air leaves the Vestal reeling and dizzy with the cloying, cluttering stench of the Hellion’s sweaty form, no matter how much she has slurped her clean. Her lips are stinging and sore from how much she has kissed this woman’s skin, and her tongue is aching and tired from slurping so incessantly. Her throat feels slightly dry when she gulps, from all the salt she has swallowed, and her nose is deadened and dull to any smell other than the Hellion’s powerful, possessive odor. It is impossible to envision herself outside of this moment and it is this smaller, eroding surrender that drives the Vestal to lean forward and press her face into the berserker’s right tit. Her lips close around as much of the wide, round nipple that she can, slurping greedily, suckling for milk that will not come. Her other hand is sinking into the Hellion’s other breast, groping and squeezing the pliable, squishy skin with growing energy and force, moving faster as she sucks harder. 

The Hellion grunts in pleasure, the smirk in her tone wavering as the Vestal slobbers on her right tit. She hisses when the priestess releases the nipple with a pop and starts to nibble and bite, licking upwards to gather up the perspiration on the Hellion’s huge breast, slathering with growing speed, the intensity of the movements of her mouth and tongue making the process of cleaning her tit seem to skip by, and to the surprise of both it is not long before the barbarian’s right breast has been slurped clean of sweat, now shimmering with a holy woman’s drool.

There is a cackle as the Vestal swaps to the next breast, taking the Hellion’s left nipple in her mouth to nurse and pawing at the tit that she has just finished cleaning. The berserker, at last, continues the sentence she started before, while the Vestal tries to repeat the process she has just finished on the other half of her partner’s chest.

“I suppose you are wondering how my balls are so much fatter than they were last week, when the same amount of time has passed between my loads. Would you like to know, little Vestal?” The Hellion does not wait for a reply, a smile spreading across her face as the memory returns to her. “I milked my cock for _hours_ this week, thinking of you tonguing my ass, of your nose on my nutsack and my dick on your face. Of how you would come to me, eventually, as the prey must cross the path of the predator, and the game must be stalked by the hunter.”

The berserker groans, and the Vestal feels the Hellion’s shaft nudge against the priestess’s thigh, growing to full stiffness, finally, at the ministration of the holy woman and the recollection of what had come before. But the warrior is not done speaking, and the Vestal is too busy to look down and behold the other woman's erection.

“And you know what? I stopped myself, always, at the last moment. I jerked my cock to the brink of blowing, to the very second where I was at the precipice, and then _stopped_. Do you have any idea how much discipline that took? And you know that self-control is not my strength.” The Hellion bares her fangs hungrily, looking at the Vestal as she finally starts to wind down her worship of her partner’s left breast. “But it was worth it. It was worth it, to know that I will be giving you an even _bigger_ serving of seed than before, because of how close I pushed myself without release. My balls are full, little Vestal, fuller than they have ever been in my entire life. They are fat and heavy, and they are eager, and they are fit to burst. And every. Last. Drop. Is for _you.”_

There is a fierce possessiveness in the Hellion’s tone, in the low drop of her voice and the growl humming below her words. The Vestal sees a wild power in the other woman’s eyes, brown and brilliant, narrowed in emphasis, and she cannot resist a whimper as she pops her lips off of the Hellion’s tit. This brings a low, threatening chuckle from the berserker, which she does not stop. Not until the Vestal starts rising further to lap along the crook of the warrior’s clavicle and shoulderblades, and she begins to moan hoarsely, unbalanced and briefly wavering. The position forces their tits to squish together, the Vestal’s smaller but still magnificent pair squashing and jostling against the Hellion’s huge, weighty, scarred breasts. The virgin cannot overpower the barbarian, but she tries, nibbling the top of the berserker’s chest clean, pushing back just enough against the warrior to keep her from fighting back fully. Perhaps the Hellion is overwhelmed by the pleasure of their nipples rubbing together, and the tickling of her clavicle, or perhaps she is just amused by the audacity of the smaller woman. 

They are so close that the Vestal could lean up, tilt the Hellion’s chin down, and kiss her, pressing her daintier lips against the split, scratched mouth of her partner, but the confluence of sensations and scents is a dissuasion. The Hellion would not welcome it, anyway...though the barbarian harbors similar thoughts, if only briefly.

Then the Hellion is, at last, clean, in a sense. The Vestal has kissed, licked, and sniffed her way from the berserker’s bellybutton to her clavicle, slurping and swallowing as much sweat as she can, so that now the warrior’s front is glistening with the virgin priestess’s drool, rather than her self-induced excess of perspiration. The Hellion looks mightily pleased with herself: She has just been lounging about, lazily, like a lioness or wolf after a kill, and being licked clean. Few things are more empowering than being so wholly served, and her shaft tenses slightly with the reckoning of it all.

There are only two spots left. Or three, to be fair. One of them is further below, nestled beneath that titanic pillar of a cock, but the other two are here, and more immediate. The Hellion anticipates the desire and lifts her arms just a bit higher and backwards to more fully expose her armpits, draping her upper limbs across the log. As close as she is, the Vestal can see even more clearly the bushy hair there, slick and sticky with sweat. She is past hesitating: Her mind is too awash with the Hellion’s intoxicating musk to think of anything but wanting more of it, more of _her_ , and she already knows that the primest source is to be found nestled in those delightful crooks beneath the woman’s muscular forearms and massive tits. 

She dips her head to the Hellion’s left armpit as the barbarian lets out a sigh of profound relief. It is good to be treasured, and it is good to be worshipped, and both are felt in equal measure as the Vestal pushes her face into that messy tangle of hair. 

In that moment, what little resistance the Vestal might be nurturing in her psyche starts to slip away. It is a slow break, a spreading crack that is still not perceived, as opposed to an abrupt, shocking shatter, but even if she does not yet know it, she will never be the same. The waft of pure, unadulterated, heady and ripe musk emanating from the Hellion’s sweaty armpit is as much of a brain-blasting assault on her mind, as potent as the utterings of the madmen that whisper insanity-inducing ramblings into the ears of her party and herself on their expeditions. But it is turned to lighter, truer, happier purpose, in submission and adoration.

She thought her nose was deadened to the Hellion’s scent, and she was wrong in the most wonderful way. The sweat and salt trapped in the warrior’s armpit is so concentrated, so potent, so completely enveloping that as soon as the Vestal’s nostrils make contact with the first strand of bushy hair, she cannot help but whine and push forward more forcefully, shoving her face into the crook and fold with rabid hunger. She stuffs her nose full of sweaty, slippery armpit hair, extending her tongue to drag and lick at the prickly tangle and along the strongest sources, ignoring how it tickles her nostrils and stings her tongue. All of the sweltering stickiness is upon her, cascading over her sense of smell and taste and sight, her eyelids fluttering and glazing as she rapaciously huffs, snorts, and mouths the Hellion’s armpit, furiously sucking and licking and heaving with intakes of air through her nose. Her psyche is being washed over by the virile, potent musk nestled in the barbarian’s armpit, moulding her like a pebble in a river current, drawing her attention to one place and one place only: The salty, bitter, hairy, slippery fold of skin.

The virgin whimpers and coos, face dripping with sweat and drool, pressed down on by the odors of the Hellion’s armpit. She whines and trembles, one hand lifting the Hellion’s upper arm to give her better access to the higher parts of the pit, the other on the berserker’s scarred abs, fingers splayed out and twitching. There is nothing she wants more than to suffocate in this congruence of skin, hair, and sweat, and she’s pressing her nose so deeply into the upper reach of the Hellion’s armpit that it seems like she just might make herself pass out.

The Hellion herself, meanwhile, is sighing in relief, clenching the hand on her other arm to stop herself from giggling. She is not terribly ticklish, but the Vestal’s degrading, coarsening worship of her armpit is scratching her such that she is starting to react as if she is. She doubts the Vestal can really hear her at this point, but she doesn’t want to risk a slip in the charm she’s casting over the priestess with her musk by letting loose a sound of such unintended joy.

So she grunts instead, and nudges forward slightly, knocking the holy woman free from her perch beneath the berserker’s armpit. The Vestal pants and blinks, tears streaming down her cheeks from the overexposure to such potent vapors, mouth parted as she drools down her chin. She gasps in oxygen, trying to regain her focus while still being drowned in the Hellion’s intoxicating, stupefying scent, but gets enough of her mind back together to tilt her head quizzically at the taller, broader woman she was just worshipping.

“You’re done there. Get the other, now, and make it fast. I haven’t even started yet, and there’s something else you’re going to do before I get going.” The Hellion barks out her command, and lifts her right after to let the stench beneath her right armpit waft out, towards the Vestal, even from this far away.

The Vestal bows her head, but rather than crawling around to the barbarian’s other side, opts for something different. Instead, she stretches out across the taller woman’s belly, her nipples brushing the rock-hard abs and prompting a shudder at the still-unyielding wall they present. Draping her stomach across the Hellion’s, body angled slightly so that her head is pointing towards the target spot, the Vestal takes a deep, savoring sniff, and then dips her face into the warrior’s other armpit. At this angle, she cannot reach as far up as she could on the other side, and her face is slightly askew, just shy of being upside-down, as she mouths, snorts, gulps and licks the sticky skin and smelly, matted tangles of the Hellion’s left armpit.

The virgin’s right arm is squished between her side and her partner’s huge breasts, and her left hand is too busy holding herself in this position to grab for anything, but the Hellion is not so constrained. Sighing and relaxing again, she brings her arm back down, so she is trapping the Vestal’s face between her bulging bicep and hairy pit, blotting out the holy woman’s sight and squashing her cheeks closer together. It is easy to lie here, draping and stretching herself lazily while a holy woman debases herself by licking a filthy barbarian’s filthier armpit, the warrior indulging in the audacity and novelty of the scene. 

But if there is one thing the Hellion’s failure and shame has taught her, it is that inaction is death, or worse. The stakes are lower here, but she is not predisposed to being at ease for so long...especially with how full and fat her balls are, with a week’s worth of spunk yearning to be unloaded from them, primed from her edging over the course of the last seven days. She must empty her heavy nuts, and soon.

So she does not sit idly by, and enjoy the debauched, depraved hunger of a Vestal bent on brutal submission. Instead, the Hellion reaches her left arm forward, her armpit squelching with the mixture of her remaining sweat and the priestess’s drool, and takes a fistful of the Vestal’s exposed ass. Her thick, strong fingers sink into the squishy flesh of the virgin’s rear, digging in and squeezing, and forcing a muffled whine from the holy woman buried in her armpit. 

“Quiet.” The Hellion snaps, squeezing her right arm a bit closer to her side, digging the Vestal’s nose and mouth into the matted, hairy, slippery fold of skin. The pressure is probably stopping the virgin from breathing, but the warrior doesn’t care, and the smaller blonde doesn’t seem to be letting up her lapping, snuffling motions, anyway. 

Satisfied, the Hellion gets back to squeezing the Vestal’s ass, pawing and groping the pliable, jiggling skin of the virgin’s backside, fondling roughly and dragging her thumbnail across the untouched skin. 

“Hm. Like I said, a nice, fat ass. You don’t have as much meat on your bones as I do, little Vestal, but you’re big where it matters.” The barbarian grunts, nodding with approval, then raises her hand up from the other woman’s butt. She holds her hand up for a moment, and then brings it down on the Vestal’s rear with a massive, shuddering, ringing slap, the flat of her palm smacking loudly and wetly against the priestess’s pale buttcheek. The blonde whines and tenses, a ripe, deep red mark in the shape of the Hellion’s splayed hand appearing on the previously flawless skin. The jiggle is still echoing out from the point of impact, across the Vestal’s buttocks and lower back, when the Hellion rears back and strikes again on the other asscheek.

The second blow brings a smothered, stilted sob from the Vestal, a cackle from the Hellion, and a fresh wave of stinging pleasure-pain radiating from the priestess’s backside. The berserker hits so hard that her own palm is ringing, and she can see a new imprint in the outline of her hand appear on the virgin’s other buttock. Now both are indelibly marked, no longer virginally white and untouched, instead marred by a reddening, sharp soreness. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen, little Vestal.” The Hellion growls as she gets back to groping the blonde’s butt, heedless of how her rough fondles are irritating the fresh slap-marks on her partner’s rear. “When I let you, you’re going to stop slurping my armpit like the little sweat-slut you are. You’re going to crawl between my legs, and you’re going to suck my balls clean of all the sweat that’s been gathering there all week.”

She bares her teeth in a wolfish grin. “And then, I’m going to plow your ass into the dirt and cum so much and so deep inside you that you’ll _taste_ it. Is that clear? Don’t answer: You don’t have anything important to say, not anymore. Not about this.”

The Hellion lifts her arm, and the Vestal, after a lingering sniff, complies. She crawls backwards, clumsily, blinking and quivering as the warrior watches her move, sliding slightly to straighten herself with respect to the Hellion, so that…

...So that she can feel the stiff, thick pole brush against her hanging tits as she moves. The Vestal shudders, moaning hoarsely—or perhaps whorishly—as the Hellion’s girthy, meaty cock slides between her breasts, gliding smoothly while she moves back. She can feel warmth pulsing through her chest as that gigantic rod drags up her cleavage, and shudders as the tip bumps her chin. The Hellion’s cockhead is slick and tense, forcing the Vestal to take several deep, wavering breaths before slipping down further, lest she give in and take that massive tip between her lips.

As she lowers herself, she watches the procession of arousal come into view. Just as she noticed before, the cap of the Hellion’s cock is a slightly lighter color than the rest of her shaft, but only just, and the rest is a pillar of dark flesh, so thick that she doesn’t even have to cross her eyes to look at it as her face ventures lower and lower. She’s so close that her nose is just _barely_ not brushing against the tautly-pulled skin of the berserker’s rod, and she can see and smell every rivulet of sweat coating that cock. 

The Vestal narrows her eyes, slightly, and makes out something else. White, flaking, dried fluid, stretched tight where it was once encrusted into flaccid folds. That can only mean…

The Hellion smiles as a look of recognition crosses over the priestess’s face. “I _did_ tell you I went without washing all this week. Yes, that’s the very same cum that I smeared onto my cock when I slapped your spunked face with it. It’s been there, all these seven days, drying and gathering salt. No, I won’t make you clean it off, little Vestal. It’s going somewhere where that won’t matter, anyways. Now hurry up and suck my balls so I can rearrange your guts.”

There is a whimper from the holy woman, of submission and surprise. The barbarian has planned this well. Has the virgin ever stood a chance? Does she, still? Only one way to find out. Her lowering head at last came face-to-face with the Hellion’s nutsack, leaving her to gawk at the gigantic gonads in front of her. She has seen them once before, but their renewed size is now undeniable, and all the more terrifying. The Hellion is sporting more than just a pair of testicles: They’re a twin repository of the warrior-woman’s immeasurably massive capacity to cum, brimming with backed-up spunk, throbbing and tense, hanging pendulously and twitching as she stares. How can she even close her legs with balls that big? How does she walk? Even if her wonderstruck mind is playing tricks on her, it is still a mystery, as stupefying as it is arousing.

She thought of them as ‘beefy’ before, and that really does seem the most apt descriptor, for they must be the meatiest pair of nuts in the Hamlet, each larger than her eye and almost as thick as her wrist. They are burly and leathery and hairy and shimmering with sweat, waiting for her lips to latch on and slurp them clean, and she cannot resist, nor does she want to.

Her head dips down so that the Hellion’s cock is draping across her eye, and takes the left nut into her mouth. The tangled pubes coating the Hellion’s nutsack in a bushy layer of almost-fur tickle her tongue and teeth, but she advances, swallowing more of that brawny ball between her lips until she can feel her mouth tapping the base of the Hellion’s cock, and she knows she’s gulped it all down. The smell is not as strong here as in the Hellion’s armpit, but the juncture of the barbarian’s crotch, where her thighs meet her pelvis, is still assailing the priestess with waves of salty, mind-melting musk. The odor is still potent, too, on that huge prick and hefty nutsack, and she tastes it on the latter and sniff it from the former, her right nostril squashed against that unyielding pillar of dickmeat. She can’t see from her right eye, and her left is fuzzy from the overstimulation and being so close, but she thinks she can see the Hellion grinning in triumph at the sight of the once-proud priestess snorting and slobbering on a barbarian’s unwashed cock and balls.

The Hellion reaches down and tugs on the top of the Vestal’s blonde hair, as the prone woman circles her tongue and sucks as much of the fat nut as she can. Both motions stop with a surprised pop, and the Hellion wordlessly nudges the Vestal towards the other testicle, sighing in barely-restrained bliss as the priestess dutifully swallows and slurps on the equally-heavy orb, the berserker resting her hands in the other woman’s hair. She is neither guiding nor forcing her, merely waiting, gently pawing at her own tit with her free hand, taking the pleasure of getting her right nut spitshined and slathered with drool in anticipation of what comes next. One last moment of lucid apprehension.

It isn’t long before she nips her lower lip, hisses, and decides it is time. “Good.” The Hellion quips, then hawks and spits a wad of saliva onto her cockhead, some of the fluid splashing past to the Vestal’s face, scattering drool across her cheeks as she is lifted from the warrior’s nutsack. “I know how much you want to eat my ass, little Vestal, but I’ve been waiting long enough. No more putting this off. Get on your back.”

So saying, the Hellion releases the Vestal’s hair, stretches her arms up, and begins to stand. This time, there is no pause from the Vestal, no hesitation, as she awkwardly sits up, and then starts to lean away, until she’s splayed out on her back. Only then does the reluctance come upon her, at the understanding that she has, at last, fully exposed herself to the other woman, who’s now completely upright, rolling her shoulders and licking her lips hungrily. From here, the Vestal can see her partner’s tits, huge and heavy, swaying slightly, and her abs and muscles, glistening with the virgin’s tongue-bath. Her cock looks just as terrifying and just as massively stiff as before, and her freshly-licked-clean balls are swaying and throbbing, stuffed with spunk.

“Good.” The Hellion slides back to her knees, now positioned closer to the Vestal, stroking her dick to spread the spit across her cock until her whole length is glistening with saliva. Reaching out her hands, her rough, calloused fingers grab the other woman’s thighs, and pull apart, slowly, savoring the spread of the virgin priestess’s legs as she nudges forward and the head of her cock hovers above the blonde’s bush.

It is too much. No matter the intoxication and submission, the threat to something she has spent her whole life safeguarding with righteous zeal is enough to give the Vestal some glimmer of focus, some clarity of mind. Enough to speak, at least.

“No...my vows…” She protests weakly, squirming, unable to communicate how horrified she truly is at the thought of crossing that particular threshold. The Hellion quirks an eyebrow, but cackles.

“Even after all this, you’re still sticking to your precious ‘vows?’ Hah!” The Hellion guffaws again, her dickhead hovering dangerously close to the Vestal’s neglected pussy lips. “One push, little Vestal. One little thrust, and...what, thirty years of virginity? It will be gone in an instant. You’d love it, you know.”

“I…” The Vestal shakes her head, finding some strength in her lifelong convictions. She is still pursuing this as a test of faith, however distracted her mind may become.

The warrior pauses, and looks impressed. Only for a moment, and then she shrugs and rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you break them, and I won’t break them for you.”

Her tone is not sensitive, or caring, sounding more reluctant than anything else, but it still gives the Vestal leave to sigh in profound, honest relief. The Hellion has been brutish, and crude, and petty, but has not lied. Not yet. 

“You’ll do that yourself. There will come a time when you’ll be mine. When I know you’re ready to have my pups.” The Hellion moans dreamily. “Mmm, the thought of you with a bellyful of my litter, your tits swollen and leaking fresh milk...it is terribly tempting. But I am a predator, and predators must occasionally be patient.”

She smiles deviously. “So I will wait, little Vestal. I will wait, until you are ready to be my bitch, and it will only be when you _beg_ for my whelps that I will fuck a litter into you. I look forward to that very, _very_ much...but I will resist, until you are well and truly broken.”

The Vestal’s blood freezes momentarily at the idea. Could she ever be so truly defeated as to... _willingly_ surrender her virtue, her purity, the very source of her Light-given powers and the material embodiment of her faith? Even reduced as she is now, the thought is anathema to her, utterly preposterous. The idea of being made heavy with this heathen’s children, of birthing her barbarian brood, is inconceivable to the point of ridiculousness. So why is she not retorting, mocking the Hellion’s conceit and professing the certainty of her own chastity? 

She already knows the answer. Her willing debasement in the service of her faith necessitates taking all this abuse without retort, allowing the Hellion to entertain and vocalize ludicrous fantasies of breaking and breeding a holy virgin. Even the Vestal’s musk-and-cock-addled mind knows her promise to herself, and to the Light. She will carry her penance with her backside, endure the other woman’s verbal torments, and find strength in her convictions. 

So the Vestal relaxes, slightly, conceding to that line of logic, as the Hellion lifts her partner’s hips and rumbles her throat. She spews a second wad of drool, the same sort that is currently glistening on her cock, directly onto the Vestal’s upturned asshole. It strikes the puckered entrance with a wet thud, and prompts a moan from the waiting woman.

“Of course, I know you priestly types have all sorts of ways around that kind of thing. That is not why I am doing this, however.” The Hellion bares her teeth possessively as she reaches down with her right hand and circles her index and middle finger around the Vestal’s back hole, spreading the saliva around the entrance, then nudging inside just a bit to let the drool seep in. The intrusion is only slight, but it is still the first anal penetration the virgin has ever experienced, and the shock of insertion is still ringing through her rear even after the Hellion’s digits leave.

“I am not fucking your ass because I respect your religion, little Vestal.” The Hellion continues, moving the hand that was lubing up the Vestal’s asshole to grip the base of her dick. “I’m fucking your ass because I _want_ to.”

With that, she starts to push the head of her shaft forward. The massive, thick tip nudges against the Vestal’s rear entrance and stops, unable to tread further into that unyielding opening. The Vestal’s ass is too tight, or the Hellion’s cock is too big, or both, and the holy woman cannot imagine that it will ever fit. Even with her hips lifted for a better angle, and her legs extended upwards against the warrior’s shoulders, the size difference should prove impossible to overcome.

The Hellion does not give up. She’s slicked up her cockhead as much as she’s willing, and clumsily spread her saliva over the Vestal’s asshole to ease her penetration. She grunts, and leans forward to carry the Vestal’s legs with her, pushing with her hips. 

The Vestal tries to relax further, and feels the tension ebb the smallest bit in her butt as she lets out a deep exhale. It is enough. With a sigh of relief, the Hellion slides inside, the tip of her dick slipping into the holy woman’s tight rear, untouched until now, and very suddenly being stretched around a cock that her hole is absolutely not designed to accommodate.

The priestess grinds her teeth together, clasping her hands above her chest, trying to mutter a prayer for fortitude and guidance, but she cannot find the words. Her jaw is too clenched, her brain unable to get purchase on the ability to speak: All of her thoughts are relegated to one thing, and that is the gigantic girth currently spreading her asshole wide as it slides forward. It is...painful, and straining, dragging against the warm inner walls of her rear, but there is precious little she can do about it now even if she intended or wanted to.

The warrior looks almost as strained as the Vestal, biting her lower lip as she keeps moving further into the priestess with every breath. On the inhale, she pauses, and on the exhale, she shoves her cock forward a little more. It is not that she _wants_ to go slowly, but the Vestal’s untrained ass is clamping down on her cock so strongly that she literally cannot spear her on her shaft any faster. Her frustration is building, but, somehow, she keeps it in check, and advances inch by glorious, gargantuan inch.

For now, she is not taunting, focusing instead on lodging her dick as deep into the Vestal’s rear as she can, accepting the slow pace in return for the opportunity to watch the virgin tremble. Firmly, but steadily, she pushes forward, her cock throttled and squeezed by the priestess’s back hole, stuttering her progress without stopping her advance completely. It is difficult going, but she will make it eventually.

The Hellion begins to time her pushes with the small whistle of the Vestal’s exhale, patterning her prods with their stuttered, simultaneous breathing. She does not even realize that she is bottoming out in the Vestal’s backside until her balls suddenly come to rest against something soft and plush, her cock refuses to nudge forward in that wet, hot tunnel, and the priestess lets slip an unsteady moan.

The smaller woman’s jaw unclenches, her fingers unlacing as she presses her palms flush against her clavicle. She is being packed so full of the Hellion’s dick, asshole stretching and firmly wrapping around a pillar it was never meant to accept, that she truly cannot think of anything other than the pressure and strain exerting on her backside by the simple presence of the warrior-woman’s rod. 

She can feel the Hellion’s overstuffed nuts, too, resting against her upturned asscheeks, fat and heavy and throbbing, slick with her own saliva, pulsing with warmth against her soft, recently-slapped skin. Gingerly, she looks down, between her flattered tits, to peer between their bodies, her gaze traveling along her stomach, navel, and bushy crotch. She cannot see the point of contact, but she knows that beyond and below her untouched pussy her ass is wrapping tightly around the barbarian’s terrifyingly thick dick. It must be quite a sight, her back hole straining to accept that length, simultaneously trying to expel and draw it in with undulating clenches.

The Hellion hisses, baring her teeth as the Vestal’s asshole grabs and squirms around her fat dick, watching the blonde lift her neck, dragging the back of her close-cropped hair against the dirt as she begins to pant. She probably should not go too rough with this woman on her first time, but she is mostly past the point of caring, and besides, her balls are bursting. It’ll be a quick eruption, anyway, though no less furious for it.

So she does not give the Vestal any more time to adjust to the sensation of the berserker’s meat spreading her rear wide. She does not give the Vestal any opportunity to relax further at all. Instead, she draws her hips back, dragging half of her cock out of the Vestal’s crammed, oversensitive asshole, and snarls as she thrusts forward again, swiftly spearing the priestess on her shaft once again. The sudden shove and input draws a yowl of surprise from the Vestal, a groan of relief from the Hellion, and a fresh sensation of grasping, clenching pressure on the warrior’s dick at the intrusion.

The Hellion immediately kicks it up, sliding her waist back partway and then snapping back. She’s battering the Vestal’s backside with raw, brutal thrusts, the kind that’ll leave her rear sore and aching even as it undulates wildly against the insertion but the warrior doesn’t care, and the Vestal is too far gone in the moment to look to the future. She’s tense, squealing and squeaking as the bigger, burlier brawler lays into her, her whole body shuddering as the upward angle of her legs, trapped against the warrior’s shoulders, keep her from steadying herself. 

Coring out the Vestal again and again, the Hellion grins greedily at the sight of the Vestal’s jiggling tits, jostling hips and wild, distracted eyes, drinking in the sight as she ravages the holy woman with more and more of her overboiling ferocity. Her hands dig into the dirt, grabbing palmfuls of soil by the priestess’s head, trying to steady herself as she starts to drool, scattering strings of spit all over the priestess’s front lips parting as she drools and scatters sweat all over the priestess’s front with every ram into that accommodating asshole. Her core throbs as her fat balls hammer the Vestal’s fatter asscheeks each time she hilts herself inside, smacking loudly and scattering sweat with every strike.

She shifts her hands to take a fistful of dirt that she has not already displaced, and in so doing shifts her shoulders enough that the Vestal’s upraised legs find a spot to slip through the support. The Vestal croons in delight at the easing-up on her hips, and promptly snaps her legs around the Hellion’s waist. Her smooth, pale thighs wrap around the berserker’s muscular hips as tightly and eagerly as her asshole is milking that big barbarian dick, squeezing and grabbing and yearning to drive it to its natural conclusion: A colon full of cream.

The Hellion’s massive, shimmering tits shake and shudder as she slams into the holy woman’s insistent asshole, scattering sweat—and the Vestal’s leftover spit from her tongue-bath—all over her partner, joining the saliva she’s already drooling liberally atop her. It is a sloppy, slippery mess, and the best thing that either of them have experienced in their lives. Neither can hold out much longer: The Vestal’s clenching thighs and gripping asshole are heralding a blossoming heat in her core and crotch, while the week-long cumload the Hellion has been saving up is about to end up where she had always planned for it to be. 

With a roar, the Hellion shoves herself flush against the Vestal, covering the other woman’s smaller body with her own, squashing their tits together as she pins the priestess to the ground. Shoved so close together, she can’t help but fuck her partner into the dirt, churning the soil into mud from the moisture of their bodies. The Hellion’s heavy, overstuffed nuts plap earnestly against the Vestal’s rear as her cockhead shoves into the deepest recesses of her guts, rubbing and sliding wantonly to and fro along those clenching walls until she can resist no longer.

Howling with adrenaline, the Hellion stuffs her cock as deep into the Vestal’s butt as she can, pushes the other woman deeper into the mud they’ve made, and finally gets the chance to unleash what she’s wanted for so long. After seven days of denying the release of her big, beefy, backed-up balls, made even more eager by the edging she’s put herself through during that time, she finally gets free reign to unload as she pleases, and she does not disappoint. The Hellion’s nutsack throbs, tenses, pulses and pumps against the Vestal’s asscheeks as she pumps wave after wave of thick, hot spunk into the holy woman, painting the inside of her asshole white with her cloudy cream. Each of the berserker’s spurts is a veritable flood, clogging the priestess’s colon with her cum, gushing into and gunking her guts with her gooey eruptions. She hoses down the Vestal’s back entrance with a veritable waterfall of cumshots, filling her with more fluid than her hole is designed to accommodate. But that doesn’t stop the Hellion from firing more and more blasts of sticky seed into the Vestal’s ass, until the holy woman very earnestly fears that she’s going to be filled to the brim and perhaps beyond.

The Vestal is being showered at both ends, by cum up her backside and by the Hellion’s slavering, drooling spittle at the front, dripping down over her face as the bigger woman holds herself stiff and keeps spewing into her partner’s bum, each splurt sloshing or splattering stickily inside her. The heat and rush, the tension unraveling and being drawn taut, the pressure and weight of the Hellion’s balls and brawn and breasts...the Vestal does not see a way out other than release, and so she accepts it as part of her pursuit. She tenses, moaning, stretching her neck and arms up, thighs clenching around the Hellion’s waist in time with her asshole’s undulation as she cums, ass-only. Her pussy, utterly unknown to pleasure, throbs and glistens, then gushes, coating the Hellion’s flushly-pressed crotch in a third liquid, to join the sweat and drool covering it before. 

Her mind flashes blankly, reducing her awareness to a pinpoint of pure light. It is rapturous, sapping strength from the Vestal’s limbs but giving her, for the briefest of moments, an epiphany of energy and pure, blinding brightness. She has never experienced something of this sort before, not once, not ever in her long days of prayer and meditation, this...focused energy, both clarifying and clouding, energizing and soporific.

Is this...a vision? A message? Is her penance to her faith being encouraged with some sign of her progress? Is the Light guiding her?

She does not know, but she cannot hold on. The light sharpens until she breathes in and closes her eyes, and then she is back to the world, gasping for air, blinking dully as she becomes aware again of where she is. Of the Hellion atop her, smothering her body with her bulkier form, shoving her into the mud, planting her cock firmly in her asshole and locking in the cream she has finally stopped pouring into her guts. The Vestal groans at the thick heat in her ass, sloshing and sticking along the walls of her colon, a testament to the Hellion’s prodigious emptying of her backed-up balls.

The Vestal croaks, trying to find that ecstasy again, but she cannot reach for it, not as she is now. All that remains is a dull throbbing in her head, a relaxation in her crotch, and a looser sensation in all her limbs. Curious and curiouser...

The Hellion sighs in genuine relief, rubbing her dripping nose and cheeks on the back of her hand, then wiping it off on the top of the Vestal’s short blonde hair without asking. 

“Oof. That was _worth_ it.” The Hellion groans. “Haven’t blown that hard in a _long_ time. I’d thank you, but you were only doing your job as my cock-socket, so it’s not like I expected anything else.”

She chuckles at her demeaning joke, then hisses as the Vestal’s asshole twitches around her shaft. Her giant pillar of cockmeat is still hard, buried inside the priestess’s backside, and though the overwhelming, superhuman girth has ebbed slightly off of the berserker’s massive balls, they are still heavy and warm, pressed against the virgin’s buttcheeks. 

“Hah...looks like you’re in luck, little Vestal. I’ve got more in me, to put in you.” The Hellion grins and leans down, pushing down her bigger tits against the Vestal’s even more strongly than before, overwhelming her with the pressure from above. Nose hovering a hair’s breadth from the Vestal’s, still smiling, the Hellion continues in a hungry, eager tone. “We’re done when I _say_ we’re done, and we’re not done until I’ve used you to drain my nuts dry.”

She guffaws, and starts to move back slightly, no longer squashing the Vestal beneath her body and breasts, without withdrawing her cock. “I warned you that my balls were full, that they were fat and heavy, and that you would get every last drop of my cream. I’m just keeping that promise.”

Without waiting for a response, the Hellion hooks her arms underneath the Vestal’s shoulders, lifts her, and, with her cock still securely snug inside the smaller woman’s asshole, turns her onto her belly. Now looking down between their bodies at the Vestal’s muddy back, the warrior licks her lips, watching the firelight glance off of the Vestal’s dirt-and-slap-streaked asscheeks. From this angle, she can better appreciate the fullness of them, round and ripe, especially with her meaty cock nestled into the rear hole occluded by both squishy globes. The sight rekindles the fire in her loins. 

“Fuck. What’s a priestess like you doing, waddling around with a fat ass like this?” The Hellion murmurs, almost sounding contemplative. In a sense, she really _does_ seem puzzled, albeit over a topic that would not fall into the purview of many philosophers. “I’d say it was wasted on you, but you crawled to me to become my cock-warmer easily enough, so I can’t complain. I’ll make good use of it!”

Reaching forward, the berserker presses the palm of her hand against the back of the Vestal’s head and pushes the blonde’s face into the mud that she’d been churning up before, covering the priestess’s mouth in the wet soil, only barely giving her enough space to keep her nostrils free. With the Vestal sufficiently distracted and dominated—as if she needed to surrender any more—the Hellion chuckles darkly, rears her hips back and upwards, and then lets them drop. With a squelching, squishing sound, her cock barrels back into the hole that she’s just pumped full of her week-long overdue load, squashing and thrusting past the cream, displacing it with her movement into her rear, providing a lovely, slick interior lubricant to the Hellion’s abuse of the Vestal’s asshole.

Hissing in delight, the barbarian rams her hips to core out her partner’s creamed colon, whapping down with vicious vertical thrusts and moaning at the twin sensations of clenching and squishing as her cock slides against the very same loads she’d just fucked into the virgin’s rear. Lifting and dropping her hips, she fucks downward, dragging the underside of her cock against the bottom of the priestess’s anal tunnel, then pushing the priestess’s face fully into the mud to use as a counterweight when lifting off in preparation for the next thrust. She trembles whenever she hilts herself into the Vestal’s asshole from above, as her heavy nuts smack wetly against the pussy lips of the prone woman—the first such external stimulation there that the priestess has ever experienced. 

The Vestal cannot even whimper in delight, so unused is she to the pleasure slapping on the outside of her cunt. It is a meaty _thump thump thump_ , of the Hellion’s ballsack whamming against her lower lips, a sound that is only matched by the squelching of the cum in her guts rearranging with every harsh shove of that thick, throbbing dick into her ass. When the Hellion shoves the Vestal’s face into the mud, for the briefest moment she cannot breath, with her nostrils and mouth clogged by mud and loose soil, but the more distracting sensation is the buzz of pleasure as her clit drags against the dirt, rubbed and nudged for the first time ever. It is ticklish, and sensitive, and terribly unfamiliar, sapping her limbs of energy to divert it all to the warm and excitement of her core, and it is so foreign that hot tears spring from the Vestal’s eyes, dripping down her cheeks to mingle with the mud and sweat. She is overwhelmed, with so much that she does not know and has yet to understand of what she has subjected herself to.

The Hellion drapes herself across the Vestal’s back, parallel to her partner, her tits squashing against the back of the priestess’s shoulders. From here, she can nip at the virgin’s ear, cover the back of her hands with her own, and she does so, covering the Vestal utterly. With her legs spread out behind her, the outside of her thighs shoving aside the holy woman’s, the barbarian can howl in triumph, a lupine sound as appropriate as it is terrifyingly accurate—at least, to the Vestal. 

Yet it is fitting, for now the Hellion is _truly_ domineering her, squishing her face into the mud, laying atop the Vestal with her limbs and body, pushing down on her back with her huge, pillowing breasts. The muscles on the Hellion’s arms bulge and shimmer with sweat in the firelight as she pins the priestess to the ground, ramming and stretching the smaller woman’s asshole with every downward-angled movement. The drumming of the Vestal’s pussy lips prevents any concentration, and coupled with the sliding of her clit against the soil, it is a wonder the Vestal has not been reduced to a drooling, broken shell of a woman already.

But she has not. Not yet, at least, for buried in the muck of sweat and tears, the Vestal still clings to the visionary faith in her religion, that in some respect, by allowing this heathen to absolutely abuse her asshole, she is gaining some greater understanding. Of herself, and her failures, and her place in the Light’s design. The hope gives her comfort, and a center, as the Hellion ignores it utterly in favor of slamming her guts with raw, wantonly brutal thrusts.

Leaning her head forward, over the Vestal’s, the Hellion growls sadistically, liberally drooling onto the priestess’s hair, letting the spit trail down once again over the blonde’s forehead and face.

“This is where you belong, little Vestal. In the dirt, with my dick up your ass, fucked into the mud over and over again. You are my cocksleeve, and soon enough, you will be my bitch. But you will _always_ be mine.” The Hellion licks possessively across the side of the priestess’s dirty, sloppy cheek. “ _Mine.”_

The priestess moans at the warm, slick muscle against her face, and cannot help but coo in delight. The Hellion’s body is covering her, squashing her beneath the warrior’s tall, dark, burly form, their muscle mass and the weight of their tits pressing down on her from above. She is stretching and wrapping around the berserker’s fat, titanic pole of a cock, that girthy prick thrusting into her with an increasingly rapid pace that has long since become a delightful sort of pressure and strain. She is yelping and whimpering happily at the incessant pounding of the Hellion’s balls on her pussy lips, sending fresh shocks of pleasure radiating outward from that neglected opening.

It is degrading, and debasing, and absolutely demeaning, and that is precisely why she adores it. She sought the Hellion out for punishment, to forge her own penance at the hands, and cock and balls and ass and muscles, of a godless heathen, and the delight she is finding in the Hellion’s control has turned the chastisement right back round to reward. It is glorious to be used so forcefully, so harshly and so strongly, and therefore it _must_ mean that this was by the volition of her guiding theology. This _must_ have been the Light’s intention. Continued penance, for a later epiphany, perhaps hidden in the flashes of inspiration she might see, like before? Or earthly service to a woman whose very unworthiness in the eyes of eternity makes her the perfect vessel for perpetual humility, in preparation for salvation? In either case...if that is the purpose, then who better than a wild woman, domineering and disrespectful, filthy in more than one aspect, to serve such a role?

She cannot find fault with her logic. So she mewls happily, wordlessly begging for abuse while the warrior rams downward with feral vigor, imprinting the Vestal into the mud with the force of her thrusts. The Hellion growls in a guttural tone, then leans forward and sinks her teeth into the Vestal’s neck, biting down harshly, holding on as she speeds up, drilling deeper into the priestess’s ass, smacking her balls against the virgin’s pussy more strongly, pushing down on the smaller woman’s back with her tits and pinning their arms beneath their own, until she has a total lock on the Vestal’s movement in all respects.

To the Vestal’s half-addled mind, the pain is pleasure, and the degradation is an honor. The teeth in her neck are a focus for the rest of the warmth and tension, pounding pressure and straining stretches, that will lead to bliss. The Hellion gives up first, again, separating her teeth from the priestess’s neck to howl long and loud, announcing her pleasure to the night sky, to the outskirts of the Hamlet and the dwindling fire. 

This time, she does not stop thrusting as she cums, each shove forcing the cum she is firing off into a froth, roiling with the sloshing, squelching spunk that she had splattered into the Vestal’s abused asshole the first time. Though it is the second in what cannot be a very long interim, and does not meet the torrential flood of the Hellion’s first orgasm, it is still an overwhelming outpouring of spunk. The barbarian’s balls relentlessly drum the priestess’s pussy even as she keeps cumming, spewing and splattering her load out to squash and mix with the seed already coating the inside of the holy woman’s colon, churning it into a bubbling, thick cream. Pulse after pulse of the berserker’s seed rushes out in urgent, desperate splatters, the continuously shoving cockhead spraying wildly all around the inside of the Vestal’s rear. Even more than before, the priestess fears that she will be overstuffed as a second serving of spunk fills her asshole, and the thick, sloshing, and sticky seed is certainly giving her rear a discomforting sensation of strain, akin, but less welcome, to the stretch of being wrapped around the Hellion’s cock.

Her further musings are interrupted when the final few spurts of cream, and slams against her cunt by the barbarian’s ballsack, drive the Vestal into another trance, another pinpointing, core-tensing, pussy-undulating vision of bright white light, comfort, and deadened nerves. Like before, she gushes, this time against the Hellion’s bouncing nuts, and comes down feeling deprived of true understanding...but also, all the more certain that she must keep chasing these visions.

For once, the Hellion is too exhausted to react, to immediately denigrate the Vestal. Instead she pants, and breathes heavily, returning her lips to lick the side of the priestess’s face, lapping at the smudges tears, dirt, sweat and drool on the holy woman’s face. 

“ _Mine_.” She purrs. The gesture is almost affectionate. Almost.

And then the Hellion leans back, grabs the priestess by the shoulders, and stands, legs wobbling slightly as she lifts the Vestal up without removing her cock from their ass. Scooping her arms underneath the holy woman’s knees one at a time, the barbarian hoists the priestess’s lower limbs up, until their feet are hanging in the air, and hooks her hands behind their short blonde hair. At this angle, her heavy tits are squished and pressed tight against the Vestal’s back, and the hold does not permit the Vestal to move anything but her arms.

“I’ve still got at least three more loads left in me, little Vestal. And _all_ of them are going to go in your ass.” The Hellion croons, her cock twitching in the priestess’s butt and her balls tensing at the promise. “I wonder if you’ll spew it out from your mouth, or if it’ll slip out from around my cock...either way, you’ll be terribly swollen. It’ll be good practice for when I breed you.”

So saying, the Hellion grunts, locking and interlacing her fingers behind the Vestal’s hand, and begins to thrust upwards, fucking the priestess in a vertical hold, as the smaller woman squeals, coos, mewls, and begs for more.

The Vestal knows that her life, hereafter, will be forever changed. She has new purpose, no less holy for the carnality and depravity involved. This is the course her faith, her religion, her Light has set out for her: To become this barbarian’s cocksleeve. It is a charge she will happily take up, and a burden she will gladly shoulder.


End file.
